


Aim for the Head

by Jabberwocky (Sisterwives)



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - Zombies, M/M, Mild Gore, Post-Apocalypse, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-01
Updated: 2013-05-01
Packaged: 2017-12-10 01:51:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/780392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sisterwives/pseuds/Jabberwocky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the apocalypse sweeps the world in the form of a mass zombie outbreak, Bro and Dad are forced to fend for their lives and those of their sons, all while fighting to keep from being infected themselves.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Aim for the Head

“Where’s John?” are the first words that Bro hears after the ringing leaves his ears. A broad hand grips him by the shoulder and shakes him, that familiar voice sharp and urgent as it repeats, “Broderick. _Where’s John?_ ”

“I don’t know,” he finally says after running his tongue over dry, cracked lips, trying to relieve the cottony sensation in his mouth. “Wasn’t he with you?” His head is still reeling, vision swimming slightly, and he’s tired, he’s so fucking _tired_. He hasn’t slept properly in what feels like ages, not since that one horrific night—visions of which still flash in his head with astonishing regularity—and every time he closes his eyes, he witnesses it all over again. The lumbering, shifting form of a zombie hovering over his makeshift bed in the abandoned laundromat they had claimed for the night, the stench of freshly decomposing flesh filling his nose, and he had shouted in spite of himself, groping in the dark for the metal baseball bat he had taken to carrying around with him (katanas only did so much when blunt head trauma was the only thing that could take down the living dead). He remembers dimly wondering how the creature had managed to break past their barriers without waking him up, but blind panic overtook him, and it was all he could do to fend it off, swinging at it wildly until he was sure the monster was no longer moving. He remembers calling out Dave’s name to make sure that he was all right, reaching for the flashlight when he heard no answer. He cautiously glanced down at the felled zombie when he flicked the switch, and the flashlight clattered to the floor as a scream ripped out of him at the sight of blood-matted blond hair, cracked aviators, and corpse-grey skin.

Egbert’s voice drags Bro out of the vicious memory, and he gratefully clings to it, the sound of his words anchoring him to the present once more. “He _was_ , he was right behind me…” He pauses, and Bro looks up at him. “Unless we got separated when the building collapsed, I don’t know if he could hear me when I—which means that he’s still—” He reacts instantaneously, already at the door and effortlessly hefting aside the barriers they had piled up to block out the onslaught of zombies.

“Egbert, no, you’re not gonna go—”

The look that Egbert gives him causes the words on his lips to wither. “My son is still out there. Do you honestly think I’m going to leave him?”

Bro doesn’t have an answer for that, so he silently begins to help Egbert clear out the doorway that leads outside, where a mob of mindless zombies has taken to throwing themselves against the building.

They make short work of the blockades, and Egbert wrenches open the door, nearly tearing it off the hinges with the force of his mangrit. It’s pure chaos outside, survivors doing their best to stave off the mass of rotting, decayed zombies that had congregated in the area, a direct result of mindless mob mentality.

Egbert calls John’s name, frantic as he searches for his son amidst the horde of people, zombies and survivors alike. Bro is the first to spot him, and his stomach lurches dangerously as he croaks, “Egbert…”

Egbert follows his gaze and lets out a strangled cry when he sees John lying spread-eagled on the ground. A huddled mass of ragged clothes and graying, saggy skin crouches over his prone form, bloody hands tearing into his chest cavity and ripping out his heart before stuffing the organ into his unhinged jaw.

Bro attempts to hold Egbert back, but he doesn’t have the strength, too emotionally and physically exhausted to pull it off. It’s been four months and ten days since Dave’s death, and he can’t handle the thought of history repeating itself with John.

“Don’t do it,” he tries to warn. “It’s not worth it, there’s nothing you can do—”

His pleas fall on deaf ears. Egbert does exactly what he himself would have done and runs towards his kid.

Bro watches, his heart sinking in his chest, as Egbert reaches the dismembered corpse of his son and sinks to his knees. The offending zombie looks up at him, blood-speckled drool dripping from the corners of his mouth, and he looks ready to lunge when Egbert sends the creature flying with a single, enraged punch.

A spasm of half-crazed, hysterical laughter bubbles up in Bro’s chest, and he realizes for the first time how truly fucking insane this whole nightmare has made him. Egbert’s the only thing he has left – Cal is long gone, a casualty of the first wave of zombie attacks they fought off, and Dave… Bro does not want to think about Dave.

He just knows that he can’t bear to lose Egbert too. He’s painfully aware that there are only a few minutes before the unthinkable happens, and with a sudden surge of panic-fueled energy, he tears after Egbert.

“I’m so sorry, son, ” Egbert is saying when Bro reaches him, cradling the broken body of his child, and there is no mistaking the mournful emotion in his voice. Bro turns his head to give him a moment of privacy, but all he can see is more death and destruction as their world crashes down around them. “I’m sorry I couldn’t protect you. And I’m so, so proud of you. You’ve become such a fine and brave young man. I just wish that it didn’t have to end this way.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Bro is sure that he saw John’s fingers twitch, and a jolt of terror shoots up his spine.

“Egbert.” He does his best to keep his voice as calm and steady as possible, given the situation, but he can’t keep panic from lacing the edges of his words. “Put him down and get the fuck away from him. It’s happening.”

Still paralyzed with grief, Egbert isn’t quick enough to react before John’s glassy, lifeless eyes roll into the back of his head. The teenager’s skinny frame shudders violently, spasms wracking his infected body. Bro leaps into action, grabbing Egbert by the arm and trying to haul him away, but the other man is immobilized, looking down at his son in grief and agony. Bro knows that he has to be thinking about the times when John was a child and contracted a debilitating fever, and he held him just like this, willing him to stop shivering – but this was no time for sentimentality.

“Egbert. Let him go. Please, you have to,” he begs, eyes wild behind cracked shades. He can see John –no, this _thing_ wasn’t even John anymore, he couldn’t think like that—beginning to move jerkily, and his heart leaps into his throat. He lets go of Egbert’s arm and tears his gaze away from him long enough to fumble for his trusty baseball bat.

As soon as he hears Egbert’s shout, he realizes that this was a grievous mistake. He spins back around, letting out a strangled cry when he sees John’s teeth sunken into Egbert’s forearm.

It happens in a heartbeat – the crack of a gunshot in the distance, and the sudden, messy carnage that results when the bullet lodges itself in John’s brain, the pressure causing his skull to all but explode.  It takes Bro a second to realize that he’s screaming, his throat raw and his voice hoarse. Unable to stand the sight of the remnants of John’s shattered skull, his head nothing more than a pulpy mass of brain, bone, and viscera, Bro whips his head around to find the source of the bullet.

A tall, willowy woman in a bloody, dirt-stained lab coat stands on the peak of a hillside, a hefty rifle still in her hands. She gives him a nod before turning, her frayed pink scarf fluttering behind her as she walks away, her act of kindness complete. Bro numbly returns the nod and turns back to Egbert, falling on his knees next to him.

“It’s okay,” he mutters, trying to ignore the blood and brain matter spattered all over Egbert, the gaping hole that was left of John’s half-collapsed head, the way Egbert was still holding onto his son. “It’s okay, he’s in a better place now. That thing wasn’t even John anymore, Egbert. C’mon, let’s just… come on.” He eases John’s broken, lifeless body out of Egbert’s arm and wipes off the globs of still-glistening blood and pulp that covered Egbert, doing his best not to think about what precisely he was touching, lest he be sick.

Somehow, Bro manages to help Egbert to his feet, wrapping one arm around his waist to support him. “Look, we have to get back to a stronghold, it’s too dangerous out here. Let’s go, we’ll get you somewhere safe, get you cleaned up…”

“No.”

Bro looks up at Egbert’s face, startled. “What do you mean, no?”

Egbert gives him a wry smile, and Bro is suddenly acutely aware of how very, very tired the other man looks, those bright blue eyes that once twinkled in amusement now rendered hollow and lifeless. Armageddon had aged them both beyond recognition.  “I mean no.” He holds up his arm, displaying the bite wound. “He bit me, Broderick. You know what that means. I don’t know how long it’s going to be before the infection kills and reanimates me. You do remember the promise that we made to each other, I trust?”

“No,” Bro says, his voice cracking. “Please, no. I can’t lose you too, you’re all I’ve got left—”

“Would you rather watch me lose my mind, attack and infect you, and then have to kill me? I don’t think so.” Egbert must be able to sense his obvious reluctance, because he reaches out to slip Bro’s shades off, cupping his face and looking him in the eyes. “Look. We’ve both been through this with our sons. I don’t want you to go through this with me too.”

Something inside of Bro snaps, and his shoulders sag. “Okay,” he says, too emotionally battered to argue. He takes the shades back from Egbert and slides them onto his nose once more. Sure, they were grimy, the lenses were cracked, and he could barely see through them, but they were all he had left of his old life. Cal is gone. Dave is gone. His old apartment building, with the smuppets and the DJ gear and his ventriloquist chest and katanas, has long been deserted. They never were able to return back to Houston after fleeing the mass zombie infections, and he can only imagine what it must look like now, likely overrun with the infected.

He wonders briefly if any survivors ever hunkered down in the apartment, choosing the highest floor in the hopes of hiding in a place where they couldn’t be reached (they were wrong. Everyone was wrong. Zombies can climb stairs). He wonders what they thought when they found the kitchen stocked not with food, but with foam puppets, their plush asses jutting out impudently.

The thought almost makes him smile.

And then Egbert’s hand wrapping around his limp fingers pulls him back out of his exhausted mind’s wandering, and he grounds himself in reality once more. “Okay. Okay. On one condition: that you let me take you somewhere safe first. I’m not doing this here, Egbert. Not with… all this.” He waves his hand to indicate their general surroundings, and a terrified scream cuts through the air to solidify his point. Bro just knows that he doesn’t want to watch Egbert’s lifeless body become zombie food, with the undead swarming to the bloodied corpse and ripping it apart, limb by limb.

Egbert looks at him for one long moment, and it’s as if the chaos around them melts away. “Alright,” he says at last. Bro gives him a tired smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes and loops his arm around Egbert’s waist, beginning to trudge in the general direction of the nearest building.

Part of him has to wonder what it says about their mental state, that they can recover from John’s brutal death so easily. Egbert isn’t as much of a wreck as he expected him to be, for someone who held his son’s body in his arms and watched his head get blown apart. But then again, there wasn’t much he could do about it. Breaking down would get him killed, and grief had to be pushed aside to make room to make room for survivalist practicalities.  You had to move on quickly if you wanted to remain alive. It didn’t make the anguish any less real, but it did highlight how broken their ordeals had left them. You survived because you had to. You forgot because if you didn’t, you were dead.

Bro blinks. He doesn’t remember crossing the rest of the distance to shelter, but there’s the door in front of him. He tests the handle, and it swings open easily. At least they didn’t have to worry about sharing this sanctuary with others, if the entrance wasn’t barricaded. He helps Egbert inside and locks the door behind them, turning to survey their surroundings. He spots a pile of weapons and ammunition, a treasure trove of anti-zombie fuel. At least the building’s last occupants were generous enough to help out future survivors, rather than hoard all of the weaponry to defend themselves. That, or they didn’t survive long enough for their stash to matter. Either way, Bro is grateful, because it dawns on him that he had forgotten his baseball bat, and he knows that he doesn’t have the mental fortitude to bludgeon Egbert to death.

He picks through the pile, singling out a large caliber handgun and checking to make sure it was loaded. He turns around, the gun cold and heavy in his hands, and finds Egbert standing there, his face oddly serene for someone mere moments away from death. The question hangs unspoken in the air between them: “ _What now_?”

“You know what comes now. It’ll be easier if you get it over with quickly.” Egbert offers him a wan smile while Bro tries to recall whether he had actually asked the question out loud. “I’m ready when you are.”

He doesn’t think he’ll ever be ready.

Bro steps forward and pulls Egbert into a hug, and for a few short moments, they could pretend that everything was okay.

“This is so fucked up,” he manages to choke out, arms wrapped around Egbert’s neck.

Egbert laughs, but it’s a short, bitter laugh, not the usual hearty guffaw he lets out when he finds something entertaining. Then again, Bro can’t remember the last time he heard Egbert give a genuine laugh. “The _world_ is fucked up, Broderick.”

Bro lets out a watery sob, and the next thing he knows he’s kissing Egbert desperately, trying to pour out all of his love, trying to hold onto him just a little bit longer. He had always been proud of his ability to use words, to freestyle raps off the top of his head and entertain the club with his ventriloquist act. But now, it’s impossible to find the words to express how much Egbert means to him, and to say goodbye. Not content with simply robbing him of his family, his friends, and his sanity, the apocalypse had even taken his words from him, leaving him a hollow shell of his former self.

“I love you,” he gasps, and Egbert pulls away just far enough so that he can cup Bro’s face in his hands.

“I love you too,” he answers, his voice sincere, and Bro’s heart swells painfully. Egbert reaches for the hand still holding the gun and nudges it, reminding him that he still has a job left.

Bro swallows and raises the gun, nestling the barrel snugly beneath Egbert’s chin and angling it upwards. If he thinks about it clinically, detaching himself from the situation, it’s slightly easier to bear. Aim for the brainstem. With that center incapacitated, the infection would be useless. Zombies aren’t completely brainless, after all; some level of functioning is necessary for one to turn.

He can see Egbert’s Adam’s apple bob beneath the barrel of the gun as he swallows, then smiles, embracing his death. “Goodbye, Broderick.”

Bro’s breathing is heavy, his finger hesitating on the trigger, and a hoarse whisper escapes his cracked lips. “I- I can’t.”

Egbert’s hand settles over his, warm and encouraging as it fits neatly around the back of his hand. “You can,” he says simply.

There is a loud _crack_ as the gun fires, and Egbert’s head snaps back, a horrible spray of blood gushing from the exit wound at the base of his skull. Bro stumbles to the ground, both from the recoil and the weight of Egbert crumpling in his arms. He can’t take his eyes off of the other man’s face, convinced that he could spot the exact moment the life left his body.

And yet, even though some part of him knows that this is it, Egbert’s gone, there’s another childishly irrational part of him that doesn’t quite believe what he’s seeing, what he’s done.

Bro gently closes Egbert’s eyelids. At least this way, he could almost pass for sleeping, if it wasn’t for the gaping, blackened bullet wound beneath his jaw. He tips his head forward to obscure the wound from his sight, shifting so that he could cradle Egbert in his lap.

There is the sound of banging on the door, a dull repetitive thud, and Bro can hear the creaking of the door threatening to give way. Dimly aware that there is still work to be done, he checks to see how many rounds are left in the magazine. Four. Good.  He only needs one, but it’s nice to have a safety net, just in case something goes horribly wrong.

The banging grows louder as more zombies join the fray, throwing themselves mindlessly against the building, and Bro can see the door beginning to buckle. He reaches for Egbert’s hand, grateful that the warmth hasn’t faded from his skin just yet, and watches, waiting. It isn’t long before the door caves, a swarm of the living dead tumbling inside, and Bro Strider closes his eyes before firing one single, final shot.


End file.
